Fool

Singing the song of a romantic hero
struck by the cupid of a mushy film,
he imagined of love and its expression
under a European countryside sun
in the company of a hundred Russian dancers
jumping in joy like insane lovers.

He transported himself to a snow-clad mountain
with his skimpily-clad shivering woman.
Then to dancing and grooving in the rain,
in the city’s deserted tiny lanes
his sexy siren drenched, moving in a wet sari.
He fell into the joy of a cliched love story.

He spread out his arms
full with flamboyant charm
and mouthed lines to invisible music.
He gyrated and threw some pelvic thrusts
to shaking hips and heaving busts.

He let go of his same old boring life
with his regular so-not-starlike wife.
And went back to slow motion running
(Lalalaa..la..laa..lalalaa..la..laa)
His wife’s hair flying in winds unseen—
a fool in love with the silver screen.